


promiscuous boy

by orphan_account



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: (all those klaus tags), Derogatory Language, Drug Addiction, Eventual Relationships, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Prostitution, Single Parents, another au where klaus is young and misguided and has a kid, but this time daves there to help and support him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:07:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22487641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The night is young and so is he.oranother au where klaus is young and terribly misguided when he has a son, except this time he has someone by his side
Relationships: Dave/Klaus Hargreeves, Klaus Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves
Comments: 8
Kudos: 62





	promiscuous boy

**Author's Note:**

> ik this has been done so many times but I wanted to do one that’s a little sadder and this time has dave! yay!
> 
> also five is sorta in this? he’s the “child” of klaus, but since he’s like, an infant, it’s not like he’s really here except in name
> 
> basically an au that the story that klaus comes up with five was what really happened, + dave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Klaus meets her at the disco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FOREWARNING-  
> klaus is 16/17 in this chapter, and it’s very heavily referenced that he’s engaging in prostitution. nothing underage will EVER be explicit or sexualized, but the topic is referenced quite a bit considering its his source of income. 
> 
> there’s also some derogatory language for sex workers in this chapter, so keep that in mind
> 
> the rest of this he’ll be 18/19

September 18, 2005.

The secret of the universe is hidden somewhere on these walls, Klaus thinks. Entire constellations reflecting off this disco ball that hangs right above him, threatening to drop at any moment and crush his skull into the hardwood floors. Hot, sweaty bodies stumbling over his still one. It’s morbid, but it’s almost poetic.

Just about everyone thinks they’re some kind of goddamn poet when they’re tripping on three tabs of acid. Disco balls are sure as hell fun to look at, though.

His eyes flutter upwards, lazily, blinking up at the thing. Each spin is four revolutions around the earth, the gravity of his entire being hangs off this ball, spinning him along with it. He sways a little, stumbles in a little circle that couldn’t even be likened to graceful, then trips over his feet until two hands steady him at his waist. He closes his eyes and watches the psychedelic little shapes float past his eyelids.

Klaus, for one, thinks it’s pretty great that discos still exist. Sure, he’s heard of ‘em before, but he didn’t think they’d be just existing down the street, or some shit. Maybe in, like, Portland. Not just down the goddamn street.

Discos are a great addition to the neighborhood, in hindsight. Klaus’ neighborhood really consists of the entire fuckin’ world, because he just can’t be tied down to one, shitty place to carry out the rest of his days. Ben tells him he's homeless. Klaus likes to argue that he’s actually home _full_ , because there are just so many goddamn possibilities. He could sleep in the dumpster behind the motel on fourth, or the gutter in front of the local bowling alley. Sometimes he’ll even treat himself to crashing under the overpass that borderlines one of the nicer neighborhoods. See, unlike others, he has _options_.

Can’t get that sort of versatility in some fancy ass mansion.

Tonight he’s feeling like a real, honest-to-god _bed,_ because he’s already treated himself to a few lines and a couple of tabs, why not go all the way? The night is young, and so is he. The disco ball is unbearably heavy holding the gravity of the earth, and his skull is simply crumbling away under the weight of it.

The hands on his hips leave, at some point, and he’s left unsupported and completely free for the taking. He lifts his eyes open to sweep across the pretty lights and the prettier people. So many beautiful, young souls. Klaus can practically _see_ them. 

There’s just one girl, however, who catches his eye a little more than the others. He thinks she could only be, say, one year older than him, drinking as illegally as he is. He doesn’t usually go for girls, especially not when he’s off his shit, so this chick must be _real_ special to catch his eye. He lets his feet carry himself towards her, her body leaning over the bar a little, and he keeps his gaze respectful even though her tank top is riding down a little bit in some sort of way that makes his cheeks flush. Her gaze is intense, piercing. She looks like the kind of girl who’ll make him absolutely fucking scream.

He _tells_ her this, mouth moving against his will, and he blames that on the cocktail of drugs and alcohol coursing through his system. His impulse control is already fucking wrecked anyways, he figures.

“Well, shit.” She says with a smile, and suddenly they’re out fooling around in some alley. It’s nice enough, she’s kinda sober and he’s not really either but that’s just typical. He’s completely at her mercy, all wide eyes looking up at her and glazed over with so, so much, and he wonders if this is what the rest of his life will be like. 

Fucking in alleys and dancing under disco balls and being _homefull,_ except he does end up sleeping in a dumpster that night and he just can’t seem to find the humour in it then.




September 25, 2005

The girl was a goddamn hooker, he finds out.

It’s a week later and he’s going to the disco _again_ , because it just seems like the place he should be at, and his marijuana-sweet high just carries him down the street in that direction. He could blame destiny, or fate, but neither have ever been too kind to him. So he just blames weed. And his father. Fuck Reginald, anyways.

Anyways, the chick is there again, all intense gazes and heavy eye contact, and he can’t really blame her because that’s the sort of shit he’d pull with older men at bars. Mostly with his dealers. Have to get drugs _somehow_ , and a certain glint of the eye will get him them. Not without a little down payment, however.

She’s got her chest pushed up onto the bar again, the same way that got Klaus all hot and bothered before, but he quickly glances away out of goddamn respect. Some of the guys here could learn a thing or two from him, he thinks. 

But no, he learns after a couple of drinks that she’s there exactly _for_ that. At least, Klaus has his suspicions. Takes one to know one, after all. 

“You working?” He asks after a few drinks. She’s surprised to see him, but not excessively so.

She laughs, open and loud. “Oh no, I don’t work here.”

Klaus shoots her this weird smirk thing, but it’s more like a grimace than anything. “Oh, you _know_ that’s not what I meant.”

She eyes him a little, evaluating him. “What, you interested? Didn’t take you for the type. Not like my other _clients_.”

Klaus scoffs. “Which are?” They stare at each other, and apparently he’s initiated some weird standoff where both of them race to figure the other one out. 

She’s silent for a few moments, then gives him another look over. “How could you tell?” Her voice is almost defeated, but also impressed. 

He glances to his nails, almost challenging. “Takes one to know one, I suppose.” Klaus doesn’t know about her, but he apparently seems to scream “ _prostitute_ ” to just about everyone else.

And he isn’t lying. There are some things you learn by life, and some things that are simply tricks of the game. The looks, the eye contact, the frequenting of the same places in the same spots. He’s never stood out on the streets, outright, but he’s spent his fair share wandering the red light districts. He’s gotten on his knees for plenty of dealers or whoever the fuck will give him some drugs.

“You in the business?”

Klaus could hardly call what he does a “business”, but he nods anyways.

“Who do you work for?”

“I listen to _no one_ , baby.” He grins. She rolls her eyes.

“You _have_ to work for _someone_. If not, you can’t even call yourself a hooker. Just a slut.”

Klaus suppresses a flinch at the sheer bluntness of her words, but figures he can’t blame her. “A _slut_ that’s getting _paid_.” He sings. He runs a finger absentmindedly over the glass of vodka that seems to have appeared in front of him.

“Weren’t getting paid last week.” She teases slightly. He supposes that she’s right. 

“Well maybe that was just self indulgence on my part.” Klaus croons back. He leans forward a little closer, splaying himself over the bar. The girl looks him up and down, with a glint in her eyes that makes Klaus feel pretty. 

So they make out a little that night, fool around a little more, and because Klaus is 16 and so terribly misguided, the thought of children doesn’t even cross his mind.




April 26, 2006

It’s seven months later and his stilettos are bordering on completely dysfunctional, knees wobbling under the flimsy, cheap things. He’d found them in some shitty little thrift store on Third, and they were two dollars and twenty two cents (including tax!) so he’d set aside some money in his very limited budget to buy them. 

They’re some deep chartreuse tone, a colour that Allison taught him the name of, along with which ones complimented his eyes and others that made his skin look flushed and the materials that flattered his skinny, lanky limbs. She was always good at those types of things.

The stilettos seem to be doing him well enough tonight despite business being a little slower, these days; there’s evidently not much motivating people to leave their homes amidst these kinds of cold, winter nights. Even the roads seem emptier, each click of his heels echoing down the vacant streets, a thick layer of fog resting heavily on the concrete. The temperature is bordering on worrisome, but not enough as of yet to make him stumble home, so he continues wandering the streets a little longer. 

At some point, a car pulls up nice and slow to meet a few feet in front of his position on the sidewalk. Klaus is awful at subtlety in nearly every other aspect in his life, so he tries his best to tame the stutter in his step as he tumbles into the car door. He barely catches a glimpse of the man’s face before he’s offering prices, after which Klaus simply directs him to the nearest motel. Alcohol and cigarette smoke stain his car seats. It’s all a routine, a standard workday, and still infinitely better than what he endured in the academy.

An hour later they’re walking out, and Klaus mutters a “good night” before the man is driving off into the inky darkness of December. He’d told the guy to drop him off near the bank, which is only a block down the street from the place he’s currently crashing at. There’s a slight stumble disturbing the rhythm of his walk, but he’s close enough to his destination where it doesn’t matter all too much. 15-20 minutes give or take to get there, Klaus thinks.

The air is heavy with silence. He’d sneakily popped a couple pills in the bathroom while the guy was checking them into the motel, so he really shouldn’t have to worry about that until he gets back to his shitty little room in that rotten crackhouse. 

Klaus shudders. He should’ve just convinced the guy to just rent out the motel for the night. Anything’s better than sleeping on that soiled floor.

He’ll be surprised if half his things _haven’t_ been stolen, little as they are, so he just carries the important stuff— cash and drugs— on him at all times. All he leaves are some ratty, sweat-stained clothes that no one would dare touch. They all know what Klaus _does_ (some a little too well), so they don’t bother his personal things too much. What’s the purpose in stealing sweaty crop tops and miniskirts and fishnets that reek of alcohol and sex and weed? 

Klaus doesn’t fuckin’ know. All _they_ know is don’t steal this whore’s shit.

He blinks at some point, and the apartment building is suddenly looming over him. There’s a moment of hesitation before he steps inside the lobby, the walls practically seeping through with mold and other unidentifiable substances. He racks his mind for the apartment number, despite living here for an impressive month and a half, and drags his legs up the stairs in a struggled haze. He has to take the stilettos off halfway, his ankles aching so heavily with a pain that comes with walking in heels for _hours_.

His own room is as he left it, shutting it as he conveniently ignores the unconscious bodies sprawled across the living room and draped over couches and the dirty little needles littering the ground.

He’s almost jealous of them. _Soon_.

“Oh my god, are you _barefoot_?”

There goes his chances of a relatively peaceful night.

Klaus cranes his head behind him, barely sparing a glance at Ben, and his face is all scrunched up in that ugly “I’m judging you, currently” look that Klaus absolutely _detests_. He makes a conscious choice not to spend any more time looking at that stupid face, so he merely collapses back against the wall, sliding down until his muscles have begun to relax. Bliss is so close, only a few inches from the tips of his fingers. Uncomfortably close.

Ben is _still_ rambling on about Klaus’ feet for some reason, which reminds Klaus to pick the stilettos up from the staircase tomorrow. The residents may not steal his clothes, but these other whores here _have_ taken his eyeliner and will very gladly steal his two dollar heels in a heartbeat.

“Oh my god. Do you know how many diseases you could contract just, like, _existing_ in this place? Let alone walking around barefoot? Do you have _any_ sense of self-preservation?”

Klaus dismisses him with a lazy wave of the hand. Ben practically screams. Well, no, he _doesn’t_ , but he certainly looks like he wants to.

Klaus truly can’t find it within himself to care. He’s already begun to prepare his needle, tapping it against his veins enticingly, but not sinking it in just yet. _Patience_. He sits there for what seems like hours, letting his lingering high drain a little more out of his system as to not waste it. His head dips back against the wall at some point, eyes fluttering closed, and let’s sobriety sink into his veins, into his mind and reality and there are whispers and screams from the hallways which means his little patience speal is over.

His fingers twitch for the needle.

“Hey. Wait, Klaus.” Ben says. Klaus is prepared for the typical rehab speech, telling him there’s a better way and all that nonsense, but instead he falls silent. Klaus flicks his eyes open, glancing up at his brother, and is immediately off put by the furrow in his brow and distant look in his eyes.

“Ben?” He asks. There’s a distant crack in his voice, a little nervous, because there are far too many bad people living in this shitty apartment that have knocked on Klaus’ door at 3am. They know what he offers, and what he wants in return. “ Ben? Say something.”

“No, no it’s just… I’m going to check outside, real quick.”

Klaus stutters out a nod. He waits. _Patience_.

It’s a few minutes before Ben walks back in. 

His eyes are empty. Overwhelmingly empty yet simultaneously bearing too much emotion for Klaus to try and process at once. 

“Klaus, y-“, he stops himself, voice breaking off. “You really fucked up this time, Klaus.” 

The door swings open.

His heart practically slams against his ribs, lungs losing the ability to breathe. 

“Holy _fuck_.” He breathes. He’s going to vomit.

She stands in the doorway. Her face remains blank, emotionless. Maybe detached. “It’s yours.”

His eyes flicker down, and he finds himself unable to make eye contact. He’s tripping, he has to be fucking tripping.

“Okay.” He says, because what else is he supposed to say?

“I’m not keeping it.” She continues. Klaus’ eyes snap upwards.

“Like… at all?” He asks, eyes huge and staring straight into hers with an emotion he can’t even place. Something sour washes over her expression and he immediately backtracks. “Of course— it’s, uh, your decision! Just—curious…?

“I haven’t decided.” She responds calmly. “I thought it would help to talk with you first.”

Klaus gulps. “Why didn’t you come sooner?” He sneaks a glance to her stomach, which is very much round and full and _seven months developed._

“Junkie hookers are pretty difficult to track down, wouldn’t you agree? Certainly _not_ the most reliable of people.” Her voice is cold, torn.

“Yeah.” He rasps. Nothing else to say. There are so many questions brewing in his mind, but they can’t find their way out of his lips.

She glances around the room, eyes skirting over the eyeliner and stilettos piled onto the floor and the bruises that extend over his skin, the crumbled makeup streaming down his cheeks. There’s a needle very conspicuously resting at his feet, and far too enticing to Klaus then it should be right now. His heel pushes into the floor under her scrutiny. Ducking away from the sheer intensity that he’d once been drawn to.

They stand there, simply staring at each other. It’s far too familiar to that hazy night, her face a muddled mirage in his memory.

“You’re taking it.” She declares. It’s the sort of sentence that ends a discussion rather than start one. 

“I’m just,” He swallows, “I’m _seventeen_.” 

She stares him down, unimpressed. “Congratulations. And I’m eighteen.” The words are dry. Non-negotiable.

“I can’t— legally. I’m an addict, all my money comes from prostitution and- I’m not- I _can’t—_ “

“When’s your birthday?”

“October 1st.”

She thinks for a moment. “That’s why you have five months to sort all of that out.”

And with that she’s out the door, and he’s left to slide back against the wall with a needle hanging off his arm. Klaus wonders, as his consciousness fades away, if this is what his future looks like. Withering away in crackhouses with the same little pile of eyeliner and stilettos and sweaty fishnets, except the money he makes is no longer for heroin but for one unborn mouth to feed.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter: vanya and dave
> 
> (if there was anything I forgot to tag lmk. any feedback is lifeblood)

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is lifeblood


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